Spectators
by Astheal
Summary: Despite his objections, he had always been the closest thing they had to a leader: open, generous, asking nothing in return. But the homesteaders know very little about their Connor, when he returns after his defeat of Charles Lee, there is little they can do but watch him fall. T for language, blood, and I don't know, cats. Sister fic to my other ACIII work, "Bound to the Burden."
1. Myriam

This is meant to be a sister fic to my other ACIII fanfiction, Bound To The Burden, and tells the same story from the perspective of the homesteaders. I originally meant for them to be one, but that ended up being too convoluted so I separated it into two individual parts.

* * *

As a general rule of thumb, Myriam did not like wolves. The were clever and aggressive, hard to outsmart and harder still to catch. When she trapped rabbits, wolves ate them. When she trapped foxes, wolves ate them. When she hunted wolves, she would occasionally be lucky enough to shoot one of them before the rest scuttled off into the underbrush, and it would always seem like there was another to replace it before the year was out.

Most of the time, she was the only one in the Homestead that had to deal with them directly. They preferred the northeast corner of the land, where she hunted the most often, and were wary enough of humans that they left the village itself alone. While Myriam was occasionally contracted by Warren and Prudence to protect their livestock, the fact remained: Myriam disliked wolves the most out of everyone in the community, which of course meant that she was the one now stuck creeping through the forest after dark looking for the reportedly monstrous animal that had been terrorizing the southern road through the town. Corrine had been nervously persistent when she'd asked Myriam to kill the thing, and Ellen had promised to pay well for its skin, and Myriam had started her hunt mid-afternoon with a mind to catch the wolf before sundown.

She was now fairly certain it was getting close to midnight.

Grinding her teeth, Myriam glared murderously at the ground before her, as if she might somehow intimidate it into giving up the wolf's secrets. She would never say it out loud, but her pride was beginning to smart; she was a hunter, and a damned good one, and _one_ wolf had managed to evade her the _entire day_ without anything more than a stray trail that she had since lost over some sheer rocks. She was tired, she was hungry and she wanted that wolf dead. It was becoming personal.

"Myriam!"

Myriam jumped, but didn't raise her rifle; there were not many voices she recognized before she even understood the words they spoke, but her husband had one of those voices. Another day, Myriam might have been irritated at him for interrupting her, but tonight his voice inspired a small swell of relief. Norris was good at making her feel less frustrated, not that she'd ever admit it, and right now she was very, very frustrated.

Straightening from her tracker's crouch, the huntress set the butt of her rifle on the ground and turned towards the sound of Norris making his way through the forest with all the natural grace of a wounded bull. It was only when she caught sight of him, however, that she noticed his fearful haste and––was that _blood_ on his clothes?

All thoughts of the wolf were put aside as she hurried to meet Norris halfway, and the closer she got, the more clearly she could see his shortness of breath and cautious, darting eyes.

"Norris!" Myriam exclaimed. "What's wrong?"

"I… I was looking for you," he said, blinking as if he was having difficulty gathering his thoughts. "You said you'd be back soon, and I got worried, so I came looking––" Something snapped in the shadows, and Norris jumped and edged closer to his wife.

"Why is there blood on your clothes?" Myriam demanded.

"I was looking for you, and Corrine told me you'd be here, and then… _Dieu,_ this _wolf_ came out of nowhere, and it was _huge_ , and…" He trailed off, apparently having said all he could think to say.

The wolf. The one she was hunting. Myriam immediately began to paw at Norris' shirt to find the source of the bleeding. The wolf could wait until she knew that Norris was alright.

"Where did it get you?" she asked, frowning.

"Arm, I think."

Myriam quickly located the wound and examined it, ignoring her husband's surprised hiss of pain. It was a shallow bite that had taken more skin than flesh, and she sent up a quick prayer of thanks before letting the arm fall.

"You're alright," she said. She had been in the wilds enough to know that, at least. "Go to Doctor White and get it looked at. Where did you see the wolf?"

"Over there," Norris said, gesturing towards the road. He seemed to be less nervous now that someone with a gun was nearby. "Wait, where are you going?"

Myriam didn't even pause in her steps as she tossed one last glance over her shoulder, "I'm going to go kill it."

Norris said something in French that sounded half-relieved, half-fearful, but he knew better than to try and stop her.

Myriam knew her husband well. He would have taken the road to find her, so she was fairly certain she could find where the wolf had attacked him. It was nighttime, yes, but it was also a full moon, which gave her enough light to navigate her way to the scene of the crime. Emerging from the forest onto the open path, Myriam scanned one direction after the other to try and spot––there. Broken underbrush. A few strides brought her to where someone large and loud and miner-shaped had charged into the forest, while the shallower impressions of a more four-legged beast hovered indecisively at the edge, which then decided that pursuit was not particularly interesting and wandered off. South, farther up the road.

Myriam craned her neck to examine the outcroppings above her, where the road twisted and ascended steeply into the rocky formations of the Davenport border. Prints and trails would not help her, not if she wanted to find the wolf tonight; Myriam needed to remember what she knew of past wolf hunts. They liked vantage points, didn't they? Then she would need to go to the high crags where a wolf could look down on things. She seemed to remember a particularly wide and grassy one not far from where the mountain split and let the road through. That was where she would look first.

She saw signs of the wolf's presence almost immediately. Rabbit fur glittered in the moonlight and shivered in a brisk wind, while a nearby log bore the telltale marks of a large canine.

Myriam dropped into an instinctive crouch just as she heard a rustling of grass.

Taking up a position behind the marked log, Myriam raised her rifle warily and peered at what the cold light of the moon could show her. There was a pine tree, and beneath the boughs of that pine tree came movement. That was her wolf. Myriam's grip tightened around her weapon. She didn't need her eyes to know which side of the tree it was on. It was already dead, even if it didn't know it yet.

Dragging her tongue along her teeth with a barely contained grin, Myriam leveled her rifle. The pine boughs shifted again. One more moment, and…

The wolf snarled suddenly and tensed, drawing out a soft curse from his pursuer. It was retreating, slipping away from the tree and far away. Dammit! She uncoiled from her hiding place just in time to see the flickering form and raised her rifle to her shoulder. She couldn't afford to miss.

"Kanen'tó:kon!"

Myriam wheeled, baring her rifle at the source of the sound: a figure, distinctly human and hunched not ten paces away. How in _Hell_ had someone managed to sneak up on her? Wait… _no._

Not just someone.

"Connor?!"

He swayed on his feet, as if that small act of whispering… whatever the hell he had whispered had taken every last bit of energy he had. Even as she was registering his darkened clothes and half-doubled stance, the man was falling, sinking to his knees and then to the ground.

Myriam rushed forward and dropped her rifle to dig into the material of Connor's coat and haul him over. She needed to see his face––God, why were her hands so slick all of a sudden? Gulping, Myriam realized that Connor was not just covered in blood, but that every bit of him below the chest was absolutely drenched in it. The clothing itself had been ripped open over his stomach and abdomen, exposing––sweet Jesus.

"Norris!" Myriam screamed. "Norris! Someone! I need help!"

Her scream seemed to stir Connor from unconsciousness, and he began to shift under her hands and bleed anew.

"Connor, no, stop!" The huntress immediately rose on her knees, working on instinct to put the full weight of her body and strength into her hands, and put those hands onto Connor's shoulders to keep him down. Oh God, all the blood…

He was mumbling now, and his eyelids fluttered halfway open while his lips did little more than make dim words that fell on Myriam's ears as meaningless sound. His gaze landed on her, just for an instant, and for a heartbeat there was... recognition?

And then that recognition was swallowed up by a sudden swell of utter _anguish_ , and Connor became still and his eyes drifted closed.

"No, no, Connor, don't. Hey, keep looking at me. Connor? Can you hear me? Open your eyes, Connor!"

"Myriam?" It was Norris, struggling to sprint up the road.

"Norris! Thank God! It's Connor!"

"What?" the Frenchman gaped, breathing heavily. A moment later his eyes fell on the huntress, and then on the man she was holding down. " _Quoi?_ What happened?"

"I don't know! I was hunting and he was bleeding… oh God, Norris, he's hurt. I don't know… there's a hole in him! You have to get White!"

"L…" The Mohawk moaned and began to struggle with a sudden vigor, almost dislodging Myriam before she could regain her stance. His eyes were open, but they were no longer on Myriam––they had settled, now blazing with white-hot fury, onto Norris.

His next snarl was crystal clear. "Charles Lee."

"Norris, get the doctor! Now!"

Norris needed no further prompting, taking off down the road as if the Devil himself were snapping at his heels.

At this, Connor arched beneath her and let out a scream; while most was a language she could not comprehend, one thing was comprehensible: Charles Lee, the same thing he had called Norris. The action made a space between them, space that Connor managed to get his foot into and kick Myriam firmly in the stomach. She landed more than five feet away, but recovered quickly.

Connor was thrashing on the ground, eyes fixed on Myriam with the same bitter agony that she had seen before. He was still shouting, but now his hands were moving as she tried to return to his side and keep him from bleeding out––and he was reaching for the holster at his hip.

His movements were sluggish enough for Myriam to avoid his gunshot and pin his arm to the ground. This seemed to defeat him in more than just body; Connor's head dropped back to the earth, and though he continued to try and escape her grasp, his motions were weakening.

"Myriam!" Thank every last one of the Lord's angels. She could hear Norris sprinting back up the hill, and wondered in the back of her mind how someone who worked in a mine all day could run like he did.

"Over here!" She shouted.

More people were coming, people that were calling out her name but that she couldn't afford to respond to yet. Her priority was Connor, who was rapidly going still. His mutterings softened, now completely unintelligible, and she turned to watch Norris draw nearer.

Lyle White was right on his heels.

"He's gone mad!" she cried.

"Move!" the doctor commanded, pushing Myriam away the second he was in arm's reach. More were appearing now; Dave, Diana, Godfrey and Terry, Lance, all came charging up the path to see what had happened.

The doctor cursed. "He's in shock. Get a wagon! Diana, run to the clinic and get the catgut!"

Diana and Lance dashed off while the doctor set to peeling back layers of shredded, blood-soaked clothing. Another curse.

"Doctor?" Myriam breathed.

The man didn't answer, just continued looking frantically over Connor's wounds with an unbroken string of cursing.

"Doctor!" Big Dave shouted.

"I don't know!" the doctor shouted back. "I can't see a thing in this damned light except that if I don't get him down that hill _now,_ he is going to bleed to death right here!"

Something seemed to shake Connor, and he began to struggle once more, slowly at first, but with rapidly increasing vigor.

"Damn!" the doctor growled as he nearly lost his grip. "He's burning a fever! It's––"

Connor shouted something incomprehensible and almost threw the doctor off of him. They could already hear the creaking of wheels. It must have been Lance; the man had no horse to tack or drive, only his hand-cart, but it would have to be enough. Myriam was suddenly thankful to the wolf for picking a den so close to their town.

"I've got the wagon!" Lance shouted, coming into view.

Connor let loose a roar and convulsed, heaving Myriam and White off.

"Restrain him!" the doctor commanded.

Dave was the first to obey, moving to wrap his fists into the material of Connor's clothes, but his target was not so easily stilled; whatever had overtaken him, he was going to fight them tooth and nail.

"Stop his struggling!" Lyle White shouted. "He'll kill himself!"

They descended as one: Big Dave, Myriam, Norris, Terry, Godfrey and White. They grasped, but their hands were hesitant and half-hearted; this wasn't a redcoat or bandit or some two-bit thief, this was Connor. Connor who had given them years of unwavering friendship and courage, and the same Connor that was rapidly turning their clothing black with a well of blood that seemed to have no end.

Big Dave had managed to wrap around the Mohawk's chest and pin his arms, which quickly turned into mistake; Connor, still thrashing and screaming, brought his knees up, planted his feet on Godfrey's chest and kicked the knot of people apart. All of them were sent reeling. Dave, however, remained firmly attached to their friend, and both he and Connor were sent to the ground.

There was a moment of confusion as the lot of them regained their feet, but the need to catch and immobilize was soon banished with Dave's frantic "Doctor! He ain't moving!"

Once again the doctor materialized at Connor's side, face twisted with frustration.

"Goddamnit, let him go!" White yanked a cloth out of his pocket-something far too small to be called a proper bandage-and pressed it into Connor's abdomen. "He's in shock again. Hell, got no right to be this strong. Diana! Where are you?"

They were rewarded with a small and distant shout, but the source was surely another half-minute away, at least. The doctor cursed again and ripped off his jacket to bind Connor's wound. The younger man's eyes were half-closed and unseeing, and blood had begun to swell inside his mouth.

Diana was panting heavily when she returned to them, but in her hand was not only a bundle of catgut, needles and beeswax, but a lantern as well.

"Good girl," the doctor said. He hadn't even thought about a lantern. "Gut over here. Hold the lantern up, Diana. Dave, Godfrey, keep his arms and legs down."

Connor's legs were secured and the doctor was given enough light to snatch up the kit's scissors and cut through the blood-soaked cloth of Connor's jacket, exposing the wound that lay beneath.

A collective gasp went through the group as the light fell onto the massive hole in Connor's side, but neither Diana nor White paid them any mind; the doctor was already working, threading the needle and setting about to quick, desperate stitches. They weren't anywhere near his best, probably incapable of holding out for more than a week, but they weren't intended to hold out for a week––all the doctor needed was for them to hold for the trip to the clinic.

The wound itself was wide and gaping, jaggedly ripped and––was that _wood?_ No, there was no time to dwell on it now; the stitches were in place, however crudely, and there was no more time to be spent in the open.

"Get him onto the wagon!" the doctor commanded, wrapping an arm under Connor's shoulders. The rest of them moved in to help, and there was no resistance this time.

Connor was mumbling something as they organized themselves to take him down the road, his words a confused mix of English and Mohawk. His eyes were open and he was looking at those closest to him, but there was no familiarity in his eyes. The hope and openness they all knew him by was nowhere to be found; it was impossible to say for sure what exactly was wrong, but the man in the cart was hardly recognizable as Connor. His face was so contorted by rage and pain that, had they not known otherwise, it was as if the man in the cart was a complete stranger.

Big Dave volunteered to haul the cart down the hill, while White and Diana hovered close enough to make sure that Connor wouldn't die on the way down. Without the opportunity to help, the rest of them trailed behind the scene in shocked silence.


	2. Ellen

Ellen hadn't been able to sleep that night. It hadn't been out of fear or worry, but rather due to an excess of energy; she hadn't wanted to put down her work no matter how late the hours crawled, despite her logical reasoning telling her that she needed to. Maria was growing older, after all, and it wouldn't be long before she started learning her own trade and managing her own affairs; now more than ever, it was important for Ellen to give her daughter a good example to follow. That meant demonstrating proper and healthy sleeping habits.

But she couldn't help it. The very cloth in her hands made her happy with what it was turning into. Prudence hadn't announced her new pregnancy publicly, but the stars in the woman's eyes were impossible to miss. Ellen had walked to the farmers' house under the guise of needing eggs, just so she could ask Prudence if it was true, and the shy, ecstatic nod was all she needed in confirmation.

It was always an absolute pleasure to make baby clothes. She didn't need to know if it was a girl or a boy; all babies needed to keep warm just the same. Ellen wanted to make little stockings as a gift, but had underestimated just how happy the project would make her; the simple stockings she had ended up with felt far too plain to give away, so she'd pinched some patterns into the material to make it more lively. But even that hadn't seemed like enough, and before she knew it, she had broken into the fine lace ruffles and begun decoration the stockings as if they'd been commissioned by the King himself.

And now it was almost midnight, and only now was she coming close to anything resembling satisfaction.

Ellen had sent Maria to bed with the promise that she would follow soon enough, and she prayed to the Lord that her daughter wouldn't wake up and find her knee-deep in her project; Maria was reaching that age where girls fancied themselves smarter than their mothers, and Ellen didn't need any extra fodder for _that_ fire.

Somewhere in the distance, a creature howled. Ellen shivered and pulled the red shawl tighter around her shoulders; Myriam had told everyone not to go on the southern roads until that terrifying wolf had been taken care of. It wasn't as if Ellen had any business on that road anyway––she had everything she needed right here, thank you very much––but it still made her uncomfortable to know that there was a wolf so close at all. She would feel much safer when the thing was dead, and Myriam would deserve every pound Ellen had promised to pay for the thing's skin.

Pushing the thought of wolves firmly out of her mind, Ellen gathered up her materials and sorted them back into their proper locations. She had all of the stockings' major elements sewn in. She could finish the last touches tomorrow.

And then someone screamed.

It was distant, somewhere near where the wolf had howled, and it was chilling. Female, familiar, but it wasn't a scream of pain––there were words there, words that were too far away to understand. Something cold and tight took hold of Ellen's gut, and the seamstress waited. The scream didn't rise again. The night, either ignorant or uncaring, filled the air with birds and insects that covered up anything more.

But then there were footsteps, crunching over dirt at a dead sprint and wheezing the entire way. Ellen stepped up to her window nervously and peered out, fearing the worst. Bandit? Thief? Her husband, returned a second time?

It was Norris. He ran like she had never seen anyone run, fear in every line of his body. He sprinted past her house, then Mile's End, until she couldn't see him any more. Ellen wasn't the only one that had noticed; there was movement up the road as Dave and Lance stepped out of their homes to see what was happening, then coming together to discuss what they had seen.

In hindsight, Ellen wouldn't have been able to tell how much time passed. It may have been moments, but it felt like an eternity before Norris appeared again, sprinting back the other way with Lyle White and a frazzled Diana in tow. Terry and Godfrey were right on their heels, pausing for a mere moment to exchange brief words with the Lance and Dave.

And then a gunshot made every one of them stop and look to the south. There was a heartbeat's silence, and then they were all running.

"Mother?" It was Maria, standing at the door of the sitting room with sleep still heavy in her eyes. "What's happening?"

"Hush, Maria, it's nothing. You should be in bed."

"Was that a gunshot?"

"Don't you worry," Ellen chided, stepping over to straighten her daughter's nightgown. "It's just a bit of trouble up the southern road. Probably that wolf everyone's been talking about. The others are already out to fix it; won't be ten minutes 'til it's done, mark my words."

She was reassuring herself as much as she was reassuring her daughter. It couldn't be anything worse than that wolf. The hunt had gone awry, but Myriam was as tough as nails. Worst thing to happen, her shot had missed the wolf and would need to spend another night hunting it. Myriam would be alright, the others would make sure they were safe, and that would be the end of it. That had to be the end of it.

So why was there a pit of dread at the bottom of her stomach?

"I'm fine, mother," Maria said, waving Ellen's hand away. "I'll wake up alright in the morning."

"No, missy, it is high time for you to be asleep. You run on back to bed and put this out of your mind, you hear? I need your help in the morning, and I don't want you yawning on the job."

"But––"

"No buts. We're making Prudence's stockings. It's got to be just perfect, so I need you at your best."

"I––"

"That's the _end_ of it, Maria. Off with you."

Maria huffed, but was too groggy to put up much resistance; a firm push was enough to get her moving back towards the bedroom. Ellen took a moment to make sure that her daughter was actually laying down and getting under the blanket, and then she closed the door to make it final.

When that business was done, Ellen pushed down her uneasiness and stepped outside. The cool October air bit at her with a vengeance, and she shivered in spite of her shawl's thickness. The moon was full, so it was easier to see than most nights, but that didn't much help her when she looked south to try and see where everyone had gone. The trees were too thick, the shadows too blurred; all she could rely on were her ears, and those weren't nearly as helpful as she would have liked.

Then, like clockwork, someone was running back down the hill. Ellen squinted; the nightgown wasn't easy to identify, but in a few moments she was able to make out the slender form of Diana streaking down the road, through the buildings, past Ellen herself without so much as a hello and on towards the clinic.

Beneath the sound of Diana's run was a second set of footsteps, alerting her to someone else, someone who had not joined the group. Katherine, Godfrey's wife, was walking warily out of her home.

"Katherine!" The seamstress waved for attention.

"Ellen." Katherine's usual joviality was absent, but she made her way over nonetheless.

"What's happening?" Ellen asked. "Where has everyone gone to?"

"I d'nae know exactly, it all 'appened so quick. Norris an' the doctor came a-poundin' Terry's door, lookin' fer Diana an' sayin' somethin' 'bout Connor."

" _Connor?"_ Ellen's stomach sank even lower. "He's here?" The nature of Connor's work had always been a mystery––Connor was very good at not talking about what he didn't want to talk about––but it was an accepted quirk that whatever his 'business' was, it made him come and go at all hours of the day without warning or pattern. Connor returning home at the stroke of midnight was not unusual.

But if Doctor White was looking for Diana, it meant that something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

"Is he––Connor, is he hurt?" Lord, why was her breath so shallow all of a sudden?

Katherine shook her head. "Norris, 'e was talkin' so fast. 'E said somethin' 'bout Myriam, but somethin' ain't right. 'E said Connor was needin' help, and then th' lot o'them took off up the mountain."

Ellen dug her fingers into her shawl. "That gunshot. Did you hear a gunshot?"

"Aye," Katherine nodded, jaw tight.

"Allo!" Farther down the road, Oliver was emerging from Mile's End. Upon catching sight of the two women, he trotted hastily to join them. Corrine followed soon after.

"What's the commotion?" he called out. "Heard a fierce shoutin' an' then I looked out my window to see the whole village takin' their way up the road."

Ellen and Katherine looked at each other, neither of them eager to put voice to what was happening. There was a strained silence at first, and it was complete enough for all four of them to hear something else––Diana was reappearing from the clinic, now armed with a lantern and a bag of God knew what, and she was running back up the road. She didn't even spare a glance at the four of them as she passed, too red-faced and puffing with exertion.

"Lordy," Corrine exclaimed. "What's got everyone in such an uproar? What's Diana goin' to the clinic for? Is somebody hurt?" She looked at Ellen and Katherine. She read their faces in an instant, and her mouth stretched into a thin, worried line. "Who is it?"

It wasn't easy to force the words out. "It's Connor," Ellen finally replied. "Something's wrong."

"The ruckus was the doctor lookin' fer Diana," Katherine added.

"No," Corrine breathed. "Not _Connor."_

The way she said it felt like a punch in the gut. Ellen had no reply to give, but her silence spoke for her. Corrine gasped, covering her mouth with one hand and grabbing her husband with the other.

"How?" Corrine asked. "What happened? Is he alright?"

Again, neither Ellen nor Katherine wanted to reply, but Ellen had started the last one and Katherine deemed it fair to do the same.

"No word," the Irishwoman said, eyes somber. "But the doctor's got good hands. Diana, too. They'll fix'im right up, I'm sure."

Corrine opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again. "It's strange, but I coulda sworn it was a gunshot that woke me up."

Ellen and Katherine shared a glance. "We heard it, too," Ellen said.

That seemed to be the end of what anyone could think to say. Corrine and Oliver looked at each other, having one of those silent conversations they sometimes had, while Ellen and Katherine did their best to look everywhere except at anyone else. The lot of them fell into a tense stretch of _waiting,_ as if hoping that something else would break the discomfort that all of them were feeling.

And in the end, something did just that: wagon wheels were creaking down the road.

They came down the slope in a haphazard procession, all silent save for the sounds of the procession itself: Big Dave was in the lead with Lance's handcart, flanked by Lyle White and Diana who both remained fixed upon the cart's contents. Behind the cart came the rest: Myriam, Norris, Lance, Terry and Godfrey, all looking as if they'd just seen a ghost. The light of Diana's lantern was weak, but it was enough to reveal the dark smears on the surface of everyone's clothing; none of them appeared to be injured, but every one of them was touched by blood.

Ellen was the first to summon up words. "Connor," she said to the line of villagers. "Where is Connor? Is he alright?" She locked eyes with the first one she could find––Norris was closest, and so she singled him out. "Where?" she asked of the miner.

Norris pointed at the cart.

Dave, Diana and White were already halfway past, but Ellen still managed enough speed to catch a single glimpse of what they were guarding. White, blue, and far, far too much red; she was able to discern the shape of a man inside that cart, a single feather, brown hair, and too many patches of blood that were so deep they had become black. It was Connor in the cart, and his absolute lack of motion made her feel ill.

 _Not him._

And then White moved in to shield his patient from prying eyes, and Ellen could see no more.

One by one, the rest of the villagers stopped following, as if tangled up by the presence of Ellen, Katherine and the two innkeepers. Godfrey approached his wife, but said nothing. Terry followed hesitantly, as if unsure whether to remain with his friend or with Diana. The two of them seemed to decide the course of action for the rest of them, and soon Lance, Norris and Myriam were all hovering uncertainly at the edges of the gathering.

Out of all of them, it was Oliver who gathered his head first. "We've some good brandy in the back," he said. "Let's get outta this cold and break into it, aye?"

There was a ripple of wordless murmurs that neither agreed nor disagreed. Oliver and Corrine joined hands and began walking towards Mile's End, and the rest of them followed like sheep.

Once inside, it took a few moments for everyone to decide what to do. Most simply stumbled towards the first chair they could locate and sat down, while a select few––Myriam and Terry in particular––remained standing.

Oliver and Corrine immediately set about to warming the place up. The lanterns were first, which finally granted enough light to see exactly how ragged everyone was, and exactly how bloody. Corrine began to stir the fireplace and build something that would give them all real heat, while Oliver slipped into the back rooms to retrieve the brandy he'd promised. Neither of them spoke.

Ellen, however, couldn't keep herself quiet. "What happened to Connor?" she asked. "How is he?"

Silence.

"Alright," Godfrey piped up after a few moments, "if none a'you lot'll do it, I'll say it. 'E's done for."

"Shut'cher gob!" Terry growled.

"Oh, y'got somethin' better t'say? What'd _you_ call that? The man 'as a hole in 'im the size of me arm!"

"Shut _up!"_

"That ain't somethin' y'come back from!"

Terry surged forward, and all in between instinctively moved out of the way––all, except for Corrine, who either very bravely or very foolishly stepped between them and held her hands out.

"Not in here, gentlemen. What say you save the pummelin' for tomorrow? I think we've all seen enough blood for one night, aye?"

Terry growled and spun on his heel, marching to the far corner of the room to seethe in his own anger.

Another stretch of silence.

"What happened?" Ellen asked again. "Where did you find him?"

It was Norris who answered. "The road out of town. Myriam found 'im, while she was looking for the wolf."

And just like that, all eyes were turning towards Myriam.

The huntress shifted, clearly uncomfortable beneath the combined gazes of everyone in the room. "I was hunting. I found the wolf. Then Connor came out of nowhere… and then he fell. He was hurt. I called for help. That's it."

"That gunshot," Ellen pressed. "Was that you, then? You were shooting the wolf?"

Myriam shuffled her feet, eyes dropping to the ground.

"It couldn't 'ave been," Norris said. "The gunshot was after you'd found Connor." He, too, was watching Myriam with worried curiosity.

"I…" she locked her hands together, then separated them, then scratched at the hem of her shirt. "It… that wasn't me. I'd dropped my gun."

Norris frowned. "Then who?"

"That was Connor."

The ripple of dismay was almost tangible.

Norris in particular went as white as a sheet. " _Non_ … 'e didn't shoot at _you._ Did 'e?"

Myriam folded her arms tightly across her chest. "He… he wasn't himself. Something was wrong with him _,_ in the head. He looked at me, but he didn't recognize me. I don't know, he thought I was someone else. Like with you, Norris. He looked at you and called you Charles."

Ellen tried to think of someone names Charles, and she failed. No one in the village was named Charles. There weren't even any sailors named Charles.

"The man was mad," Godfrey added softly. "'E was thrashin' a storm when we got there. Nearly broke us all t'pieces when we tried t'keep 'im still, like 'e thought we was tryin' t'kill 'im."

"He wasn't moving when you came down," Ellen breathed, her throat tight.

No one responded.

Oliver, who had been listening to the entire exchange from the back door, stepped forward with a squat barrel on his shoulder and set it on the bar with a solid _thud._ Needing no suggestion, Corrine immediately moved behind the counter and began grabbing every cup and glass she could get her hands on. She handed each of them to her husband, and, like a machine, the two of them had enough brandy for the entire room within minutes.

The clinks and rumbles of a tavern in motion filled the empty space of the air, cutting lines through the shared silence and wrapping each villager in their own thoughts as they processed the events of the past half-hour. God, had it only been a half-hour? Ellen was having difficulty even visualizing what Myriam and Godfrey had described. Connor, crazed, _dying_ , trying to _shoot_ Myriam. She couldn't imagine it.

She didn't _want_ to imagine it.

Ellen wasn't much of a drinker, but when the glass of brandy was set before her, she downed the thing in three gulps. The brandy burned on the way down, but it was a good burn––it centered her to the present moment, drawing her out of her attempts to visualise a Connor plagued by madness and gunshots and death. A look around the room revealed that everyone else had more or less done the same with their own brandy. Without a moment's pause, Oliver and Corrine were gathering up the cups and refilling them.

"Connor saved my life, y'know," Terry said from his angry corner. "When we first came this way. He pulled me outta th'river right afore I went over the falls."

" _What?"_ Katherine squawked. "What'n the blazes were y'doin' in the river?"

"Lumberin' accident," Godfrey supplied. "We weren't doin' too well with the business, so we were takin' on riskier trees. One a'them trees ended up in the river, with Terry on it."

Katherine looked at Godfrey, mouth open in dismay, and smacked her husband upside the head.

"Oye!" Godfrey hissed, recoiling. "What was _that_ fer?"

"Takin' on chances like that, as if ye ain't flesh an' bone like the rest of us! Ye don't go fer trees like tha'!"

"That was twelve years ago!"

"That ain't an excuse!" Katherine turned and sent a chastising glare towards Terry. "An' if Diana were here, she'd slap ye, too. _Saved ye from the river…_ you boys got no sense'a self-preservation, I swear!" Despite her apparent annoyance, Katherine wrapped her arms around Godfrey's neck and plopped into his lap, muttering something along the lines of _idiot lumbermen._

"It was bandits for me," Lance piped up suddenly, breaking his previous quietness. "Tried to rob me just east of the road, and they tossed me over a cliff for my trouble. Have you heard the story?"

There were a few nods, a few shaking of head and a few shrugs.

"Connor took care of those ruffians and pulled me up," Lance said. And that was the end of the story. Lance wasn't much of a storyteller.

Ellen didn't realize she had something to say until she was already speaking. "He was the only one that stepped in."

The room shifted to look at her.

"When I was with Quincent, we'd argue. It wasn't much at first, but by the end we would argue almost every day. When he couldn't win with words, he'd win with his hands." Ellen's chest tightened. "Inside. Outside. Alone. In company. It didn't matter. He'd win whenever he could." She closed her eyes to try and stave off the heat of rising tears. "The neighbors knew. The customers knew. They'd never ask about it, though. They thought it wasn't their business. If we fought on the street, it didn't matter what he did; people passing by wouldn't even look at us. They'd pretend like nothing was happening." Ellen couldn't help it; she had to wipe her eyes. "Connor was the first man––first _person_ ––who helped me. I didn't think I'd ever get away from Quincent. I thought I would live like that forever. He was my husband, wasn't he? Wives do as their husbands say. And I just––and then Connor told me about this place, and he stopped by again to help us pack up, and now I'm here, and I'm _free."_ She had to stop to catch her breath. "I don't have to look at my husband's face ever again. He's not going to lay another hand on me or Maria, _ever_. And you all––Connor––when Quincent came to find me––if he comes again––"

Myriam interrupted her. "If he comes again we'll turn him black and blue and send him off with broken bones, just like last time."

A breath of _hear, hear_ passed through the group.

"Connor saved me," Ellen rasped. "Connor gave me all of _you._ "

As Oliver and Corrine redistributed the brandy, they all began to speak one by one of how they had first met Connor. Some of the stories were new, others had been told and retold many times, and none of them were surprising. Of course Connor would have jumped into a back-alley brawl. Of course he would take on a regiment of redcoats. Of course he would defend a woman from her own husband.

As the stories piled up, Ellen was struck with the realization of exactly how much they all owed Connor. They owed him their homes. Safety. Freedom. Lives. Whatever their backgrounds, it was Connor that they all had in common. Was someone hurt? He would be the first to carry them to safety. Was there danger? He would leap in front of it without hesitation. Defamation of character? Not enough hands to hunt enough animals? A supply run to one of the cities? Yes he would help, of course he would help, what do you need and where can I find it, alright then, here's what you asked for, no no, that angry bear was no trouble. Redcoats incoming? No worries, not even a blink, of course he would stand in front of a mineshaft all by himself while you were inside ripping metal out of the rocks. You don't have the money to build an inn? Here's a thousand pounds, have a nice day, no need to return the debt, I'm off to New York, hope you settle in well.

And Myriam, competitive as she was, just had to be the one to trump them all. "He fought off a pack of wolves for a handful of flowers."

That one made everyone pause, if only because they thought they hadn't heard correctly.

To Norris, Myriam grinned and asked, "Do you remember when you asked him to get some flowers for me?"

Norris turned bright red. "Oh, ah, _oui._ Yes, I remember."

"Prudence told him that the best flowers grow on higher ground. But she just meant flowers grew well on _hills._ He went to the northwest range and climbed a _mountain._ Right in the middle of that huge wolf territory." She leaned back and shook her head, grinning. "And now that territory is perfectly safe."

"'E fought _wolves_ for those flowers?" Norris exclaimed in obvious dismay, flushing an even deeper shade of red. "I would never 'ave asked if I knew 'e was going to 'ave so much trouble! That is ridiculous! You didn't even _like_ those flowers!"

The entire room snickered, although Ellen had no idea what exactly they were snickering at––was it Norris, for his embarrassment at having asked such a monumental task of Connor without realizing it? Was it at Connor, for having assumed that "high ground" obviously meant "on top of the highest wolf-infested mountain you can find?" Or was it at the fact that none of them were at all surprised that he would both assume such a thing and then utterly commit to it just because someone had asked him for flowers?

"Of course he'd do that," Terry chuckled. "Crazy bastard."

The door to the inn scraped open, letting in an unexpected draft of cold October air. The warm, brandy-scented atmosphere they had built was suddenly chilled.

Big Dave stepped over the threshold, and there was a collective intake of breath. He was even bloodier than he had been before––he was nearly _soaked_ in blood––and his brow was set low. There was a graveness to his posture that they could all pick up in an instant; Katherine clung even more tightly to her husband, Norris and Myriam laced their hands together fearfully while Corrine and Oliver took a step closer to one another.

 _Lord, don't say he's dead,_ Ellen prayed.

Dave paused, sensing the change in the room, but it was only for a moment; without a word, swept his gaze over them all, looking at them one by one––and settling on Ellen.

"You," he said, nearly shaking the room apart with the timber of his voice. It wasn't even all that loud; they were just so quiet that the drop of a pin would have sounded like thunder, nevermind Dave's rumbling baritone. "Do you have any linen to spare?"

"I––what? Linen?" Ellen paused to gather herself. "What do you need linen for?"

"White doesn't think they'll have enough bandages. They need a few more yards."

A few more _yards_ of bandages? What did that mean? Was that really what they needed to help Connor? How much blood _was_ that? Too much? Could someone even survive losing a _few yards of bandages_ worth of blood?

"Ellen." Dave's voice shook her out of her terrified stupor.

"Yes, yes, I have linen." Ellen stood and straightened her dress, swallowing down the lump in her throat. "Of course you can have some. Follow me."

She left the heated eyes of Mile's End and returned to the brisk autumn air. Too many thoughts were in her head, jostling for dominance: worry, fear, guilt, others that she couldn't name, all wanted to crash down on her and break down that barrier that was holding back her tears.

She couldn't afford to submit. She had to get Big Dave his linen. If there was even a chance that her cloth would help Connor, he could take every bolt of fabric she owned.

The house was quiet, and Big Dave knew instinctively that it would be better to keep it that way. He had to stoop to get inside, but he could be remarkably stealthy when he wanted to be; together, the two of them crept their way to the corner Ellen kept her cloth in. The linen, a common material, was easy enough to find, and Ellen had plenty of it. She didn't know if dye would help or hinder, so she rummaged to the undyed cloth and pulled out three bolts. Then she pulled out a fourth bolt just to be sure.

"Here," she whispered, handing it all off to Dave. "I have more, if that doesn't turn out to be enough."

He dipped his head. "Thanks," he murmured, turning and making his way back out the door.

Ellen sank to the floor. She couldn't hold down the rising whirlwind inside her chest.

"Mother?"

"Maria." She knew in the back of her mind that she needed to admonish her daughter for getting out of bed _again,_ but couldn't quite manage it.

"What's wrong? Was that Dave? Why does he have our cloth?"

"He…" She swallowed hard. "He needs it, dear."

"Why are you crying?"

Lord, was it so obvious? Ellen stood back up, doing her best to at least appear like she was steady, and crossed the distance to wrap her daughter in a tight embrace.

"I'll tell you in the morning, dear," Ellen whispered. "I'll tell you all about it once the sun's up. No need to worry yourself; we're all safe, you hear? It's going to be alright. There's no danger."

"Mother, you're not making sense."

"I know, Maria." She kissed her daughter's forehead. "Just leave it for tomorrow, alright? It'll all make sense then, I promise."

Maria hesitated, but obeyed after a few moments. Prying herself free, the girl gave one last disconcerted glance over her shoulder before going to their shared bedroom. Ellen took a moment to center herself, and then followed. She was careful to keep her face turned away from her daughter as she climbed into her own cot, not even bothering to find her nightgown, and lay her head down. She didn't want Maria to see her tears.

 _In the morning,_ she repeated to herself. _Just hold out until morning._


End file.
